


Please Have Snow and Mistletoe

by jat_sapphire



Series: I'll Be Home for Christmas [1]
Category: The Professionals (TV 1977)
Genre: Christmas, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:14:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28354518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jat_sapphire/pseuds/jat_sapphire
Summary: Doyle stops by Derby to see his mother and then spends Christmas Eve with Bodie.
Relationships: William Bodie/Ray Doyle
Series: I'll Be Home for Christmas [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2102805
Kudos: 18





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Discovered in a Livejournal Christmas Challenge "Discovered in a Box of Baubles" 2020.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Doyle visits Derby.

1981 

A battered Albatross cab drew up and parked on Litchurch Street, in front of an ordinary semi-detached with cabbage and carrots in the front garden. The passenger fumbled with bills, gave a few to the driver and waved off the change. Looking at the gate and the vegetables, he rubbed his face down to his white-streaked beard. He'd noticed how much it looked like his father's. He'd grown it for his next undercover assignment. 

He'd never been here. He'd never been given this address, had to look it up in CI5 files. 

He didn't know whether he'd even be let in. 

No use just standing at the gate. He lifted the latch and went up the path. Rang the bell. 

There was no dog, no sound beyond the door for several seconds, then steps shuffling on the tiled floor. 

The door creaked open, only a few inches. 

“Hullo, Mum,” he said awkwardly. “It's Ray.” 

The pause seemed minutes long. Then she said, her voice cracking, “What happened to your face?” 

“May I come in?” 

She stepped back, with a gesture that looked almost like welcome. 

The sitting room was in front, with a suite that had flowered slipcovers in bright green and blue and red. 

Doyle sat on the plump cushion and wished for tea. “Cuppa?” his mother asked, as sourly as if she had lemon in her mouth. 

“Ta,” he said, and she went out with that same, slightly dragging step. 

The tray she carried in was small, two cups and a small plate of biscuits, a sugar bowl and a little milk jug. “What do you take in your tea these days?” 

“Just milk,” he answered, and took a sip when she handed it to him. She drank a bit too, then looked at him expectantly. “I joined the Met, London police, after leaving school,” he said. “At the end of training, group of us went pubbing. No badges or uniforms, just a friendly few rounds at a number of pubs. We were a bit merry, no more. The kind of area where coppers are called 'the filth.'” He shook his head. “Dunno why we were such fools. Local gang caught up with us between pubs, mugged and beat some of us. Me.” He drank the rest of his tea, while she watched him silently. “Woke up in hospital, and they rebuilt what they could. Best they could do, eh?” 

Her eyes fell to her hands, clasped together on her lap as if she wanted to touch him. He felt his mouth twist.“I'm in CI5 now.” 

“I've heard of that. I think.” 

“Lot of opinions, not many facts. Mr Cowley, he runs it, issues enough D-notices, not much gets out.” 

They looked at their cups, dregs in hers, his slurped up. She used to scold him for the uncouth noise he made, but now she didn't meet his eyes. He glanced around the room, occasional tables and mantel, including a family portrait. His father's beard could have been his own. Looking out of the photo, he squinted slightly but had no spectacles. His cheeks were even. Mrs Doyle's hair was in one of those '40s puffs with the ends curled under. 

On one side was a little frilly bit of tulle and a spray of cloth flowers. She had never liked the bird-wings other women wore. More cloth flowers, a wedding bouquet, were under a glass dome. He remembered them. 

He wanted to come back, eat mince-pies and hang a mistletoe bough. He wanted to return with Bodie. 

“Mum,” he said, and heard the roughness in his voice, so he cleared his throat and said it again. “Mum, we work in pairs in CI5. Partners. My partner and I …. His name is Bodie. I'd like to bring him. I'd like you to meet.” 

She thought about it. He remembered that last night, when he'd stuffed things haphazardly into his gym bag and bundled it down the stairs and out, then sat and sniffled on the bus stop, poking things back into the bag that were falling out, forcing the zip closed and remembering her voice thanking God that his father was dead so he would never have to know that Ray … she had no word to call it and too much shame to speak it if she had known one. 

She cleared her throat too. “I haven't celebrated Christmas for … a long time.” 

“Maybe this year?” _Please,_ he thought. “Room enough for the tree there, eh? You reckon?” 

“Your … partner? Is he … a northerner?” The end of her mouth curled up, slightly. “You never used to say 'reckon.'” 

“Yeah. Born in Liverpool.” The thought of Bodie made him almost smile. “A charmer, he is. Keeps me from losing me temper. Saves me life.” 

“Does he? Something to thank 'im for, then.” 

He wanted to challenge that, say something like 'You sure you want to thank him?' but he closed his mouth and thought about Bodie. The way he charmed women, old or young, even when he was nervous … he remembered going to see Tony Miller's mother. Bodie'd whinged about missing the lasagna his new bird was making, but when they got there, he handed Mrs Miller his clean handkerchief and made her tea, and ate the sandy tea-cake she served them, and remembered or made up stories of Tony's kindness and bravery. 

Even Mrs Doyle wouldn't be able to resist him. Doyle couldn't, even when he'd made a lasagna to make up for the one he'd missed. 

“Tomorrow, then, OK?” he said, wanting to get back to Bodie. 

Home for Christmas Eve.


	2. Chapter 2

“Where've you been?” Bodie said when he walked in the door. 

“Cowley sent me to follow up with Pellin, you remember? The youth centre is going fine. And I stopped to see how Green was enjoying the accommodations at that prison he was so proud of.” Doyle felt his grin sharpen, savouring that bastard Green's baffled ego. “Then I stopped off in Derby, saw me mum.” 

“You did?” 

“Yeah.” Doyle went over to the drinks cabinet, poured himself a whisky, sipped from it. His breath felt shallow, his chest tight. He felt as though he were lying even though he hadn't spoken a single untruthful word. He moved toward the sofa, glancing at Bodie, snuggled comfortably in the cushions, his long limbs and his solid form laid out like a smorgasbord for some party of strangers. His mother thought he was the guest of—well, not of honour. Who knew what she would say when she met his partner? Whom he had not even asked ...? Bodie needed to know something of what to expect. Doyle swallowed, sipped his whiskey, sat, swallowed again. “She threw me out, you know.” 

“Threw you out!” Bodie leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Whatever for?” 

“Thought I was a shirt-lifter. I didn't even know what it meant then. I was sixteen. On the street.” Doyle turned the glass, watching the amber liquid move within it. 

He felt Bodie's large, warm hand on his forearm, gripping firmly, holding him together. 

“Wasn't that 1961?” Bodie asked softly. 

Ray did some maths. “Yeah, must've been.” 

Bodie grinned. “Same year as me, left school, got into the merchant.” 

“Too bad we didn't meet then.” 

“Can't imagine you in the mercenaries.” 

“No.” Doyle's shoulders moved up and down. “Me either.” He drained the glass and put it on the coffee table. “I can hardly imagine you meeting my mother.” 

“Do you want me to?” 

Doyle took hold of his courage. “Yes. I do. Bodie. I want to go back tomorrow, bring her a tree, set it up.” 

Bodie's grin stretched wide. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah. Will you?” 

“You'll need me in Woolie's. Your taste in decorations, Doyle ...” He looked around his own sitting room, entirely undecorated. “Well, I'll do my best for you.” 

“Know you will,” and a spear of warmth slid through him.


	3. Chapter 3

Cowley so often called them in at half-eight that it was no trick to meet at half-seven. They rolled into Derby at 10:49 or so according to Bodie's Superman watch. They chose a tea shop that Doyle thought he recognised and flirted gently with the matronly ladies who ran it. Doyle had tea with ginger biscuits while Bodie had scones and clotted cream and strawberry preserves and tea with three sugars and real cream. 

Then to Woolworth's. Doyle had almost forgotten the Christmas silver and gold décor with tinsel and baubles dangling overhead and down each wall. Down the centre of the Christmas aisle were containers open at the top and filled with garlands, packages of tinsel, decorative signs, and baubles hung on cards. It was an Aladdin's cave of decorations, and Bodie went at it like the Assyrian hordes in purple and gold. The artificial trees were arrayed against the wall, and they chose one in silver and white, two metres tall and pre-lit. Bodie chose a fairy with curly hair and golden wings, two boxes of round, rainbow baubles and a flat of baubles in all shapes: Father Christmas' boot, bells, teddy bears, a tiny glass wreath, reindeer, a sleigh, gingerbread biscuits and a candy house. A car, not unlike their Capris. A bottle that could be whiskey. A banana and a crescent moon. 

Then the food: prepopped corn to string, biscuits and candies and cheese straws, canned ham and rice and christmas cake. At long last, Doyle managed to pry Bodie from the store, and they filled the car with their purchases and set off for Litchurch Street. 

Mrs Doyle looked a bit dazed as Ray and Bodie ran in the packages just as they had when they were reopening the Gay Youth Centre. Bodie wrestled the tree out of its box as the Doyles looked on. Mrs Doyle said, sounding bemused, “He's very … muscular,” and Ray felt his face grow hot. 

By tea-time, night had fallen, and the tree was almost full of baubles and garlands. Mrs Doyle made tea, and Bodie ate four crumpets and had three cups. Ray ate one crumpet and drank one cup, mesmerised by the tales Bodie told, probably not true but exciting and heartwarming by turns, never crass or less than charming. They strung popcorn and made a couple of paper chains, which finished the tree, and they sat looking at the twinkling fairy lights. It was almost a family Christmas. 

All at once, Ray felt overwhelmed and got up, walked to the gas fire and stared down at it. 

“I suppose Ray never told you about last winter, when he disarmed a dirty great bomb and saved Grosvenor Square.” Bodie's voice was warm and smooth, and as he told the story, he worked in details about Ray's speed and marksmanship, even including Cowley's rare words of praise. Ray felt his mother's gaze and could not meet her eyes, embarrassed even while he was pleased at how Bodie tried to mend the breach he didn't really understand. He wanted to cover Bodie's mouth with his hand. He wanted to kiss him, fingers buried in that silky hair. 

Good thing they had not bought mistletoe. 

Bodie asked for the W.C. and was given directions to it. When he was out of sight, after a moment, Mrs Doyle said, “He keeps you on the straight and narrow, then, does he?” 

Ray thought of Cowley as more the straight-and-narrow keeper, but said, “We do that for each other.” 

She nodded, apparently pleased. “If you must have a job as dangerous as that, best you have a partner to protect you.” 

Bodie was back, preening a little at the compliment to himself that he'd just overheard. “That's right, good thing he's got me.” Ray felt his lips quirk slightly. 

If they were going to be able to check in properly Christmas Day, they'd need to leave soon, Ray realised, and anyway Mrs Doyle had not offered dinner. “It's three hours back,” he began awkwardly, and his mother rose to offer her hand to Bodie. 

Turning to Ray, she touched his broken cheek, saying, “Don't wait so long, next time,” and turned her cheek for a kiss. 

His eyes stung. He could hardly recall the last time he'd kissed her, yet he remembered the smell of her hairspray and the texture of her face powder as if it had been yesterday. “Take care, mum. Happy Christmas.” 

She wished the same to Bodie, who bade her a happy Christmas too, and took Doyle's elbow as they reached the car. The glitter from the pavement and the windscreen provided enough reason, but Ray could barely see the car. He collapsed into the passenger seat and groped for his pocket square to wipe his eyes and his nose while Bodie got in the driver's seat and fastened his belt. 

“Nice lady,” said Bodie as they negotiated a roundabout. “Thought I might need to be a bit Brutal Merc, but she was fine.” 

“Didn't even call you a lout.” 

“I know!” 

Ray looked at his profile, trying to think of the next line of banter, but his head was full of simple golden gratitude, like a pint of the best. “Do we have a turkey and fixings for tomorrow?” was all he could think to ask. 

“In the fridge, Goldilocks, just right,” said Bodie. 

“Just right” was just how it was, too.


End file.
